


Storm

by WithoutBringingMeDreams



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-02
Updated: 2014-04-02
Packaged: 2018-01-17 21:50:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1403701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WithoutBringingMeDreams/pseuds/WithoutBringingMeDreams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The storm hits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Storm

Ian’s been quiet the past few days. With all the shit Mickey’s had to deal with—avoiding family, Svetlana’s crazy demands, moving them back home so he can help with the baby and shut her the fuck up, trying to figure out how he’s supposed to _be_ now that he’s out—honestly he’s been a little relieved.

There’s been no more demands from Ian, no more expectations Mickey’s not sure he can meet. Just someone to pass the baby off to when he needs to prep a new bottle, someone who makes him lunch, someone who hands him a lit cigarette even though Ian himself has quit, and most importantly, someone to tangle himself with at night.

That last one’s a new thing for Mickey, just since the day he came kicking and screaming out of the closet. He’d had his breakdown then and Ian had held him tight through the _what-the-fuck-did-I-just-do_ terror, right on to the next morning when he felt more like himself again and was able to push Ian off. _Why the fuck you being so clingy, Gallagher?_ But they’d tangled again that following night and the night after, legs entwined and arms flung over each other, and it’s not something Mickey’s ready to give up.

So Mickey wants to be happy with the relative calm, if the word calm can ever be applied to the shit show that is his life. He’s fucking thankful for Ian’s quiet comfort…but a part of him misses playful Ian, laughing Ian, hell, even pissed off Ian. He doesn’t really understand what’s changed. Still, he can’t help but blame himself. 

And he’s fucking terrified that the _calm_ he’s feeling is just the peace before the fucking storm.

 

He’s facing Ian when he wakes that morning, and he smiles. With the almost-afternoon light streaming in, Ian’s red hair glows against the dingy sheets. It’s late and they really should be getting up, but Mickey doesn’t want to spoil the moment. He hasn’t heard screaming so Mandy must’ve taken a turn with the squirt. He’ll have to thank her, one of these days. Somehow.

In these moments, Mickey can pretend everything is perfect. Maybe he can even wake Ian up with a morning blowjob, or a kiss. No, wait, scratch that last part. Definitely a blowjob. They can kiss afterwards.

Mickey stretches up to glance at the clock. Shit, how is it almost twelve? Ian never used to sleep this late…even when he was working. He’s skipped his shifts at the club the past two nights—called in sick or something. He’ll probably get fired soon. Mickey’s looking forward to it.

Ian moans softly, recapturing Mickey’s attention. He’s blinking groggily and his eyes are unfocused.

“’Morning, sleepy head.” Mickey reaches out and tousles Ian’s hair. Hair touching is another new thing for him, and another thing he’s happy to add to his life as… _gay_ Mickey. At least behind closed doors. 

Ian’s still blinking. Suddenly his brow furrows, and he reaches out to touch the cut on Mickey’s forehead.

“What, it open up again? ’m I bleeding?” Mickey asks, trying to make sense of Ian’s concern.

“I did this,” Ian whispers.

“What?” Mickey pulls back from Ian’s touch. “The fuck you talking about?”

“I did it,” Ian repeats, and now his eyes are welling with tears. The green of his irises turns more blue with the screen of liquid obscuring them. “I’m so sorry, Mick. I’m so sorry.”

“You still fuckin’ asleep or something? You know perfectly fucking well who made all those gashes…except a few on my hand are from me breaking that bottle on Terry’s head.” Mickey nearly smirks at the memory, but he can’t because this sudden strange turn in Ian’s behavior seems a whole hell of a lot like fucking storm clouds.

“No, I…I made you. I made you do that. In front of them. In front of _him_. He…he could’ve killed you. He almost did before…the way he hits you in the head…and I…I made you…”

Ian’s breaths are growing shorter and shorter, and his voice is growing louder. It’s like a runaway train, barreling straight for Mickey, and he has no clue how to stop it.

“Ian, chill the fuck out. You didn’t make me do anything. I know you think you’re a fuckin’ tough guy and all, but you don’t have all that much fucking power over me." 

That’s not true at all, and Mickey has to really force out a smile to accompany it. He just needs Ian to stop panting for air, for his eyes to stop watering, for him to stop feeling so damn guilty. That’s Mickey’s job. 

“I don’t know why I did it. I was just so fucking angry. But I was sad, too, you know? I was sad for me and sad for you and just…I lost it, Mickey. I coulda killed you. What the fuck is wrong with me? What the fuck?” 

Ian isn’t calming down. Not even close. Tears are spilling down his cheeks now, zigzagging between faded freckles. 

“Ian,” Mickey murmurs, and he can’t help but think those zigzag trails are like lightning, the tears like rain. Is the storm finally here? “Shh. Breathe. It’s okay. Everything’s okay.” He reaches out to bring Ian close, to stroke his back, to kiss his forehead. 

But Ian’s still crying, murmuring into Mickey’s chest, fingernails digging into Mickey’s side like he’s clinging to the only support he has left in this world.

It’s the storm, all right.

Mickey blinks away his own tears, glad Ian can’t see them from where he’s pressed in tight. “It’s okay, Ian. Whatever…whatever this is, we’ll get through it, okay?”

They _have_ to.

If there’s one thing living a shit storm of a life has taught Mickey, it’s that he can weather almost anything. And even if he and Ian can only find any fucking happiness in the fleeting eyes of said storms…he’ll take it.

Better than living all the time in the fucking dark, than never having the chance to see Ian’s beautiful smile—the one just for him—again.

“Mickey,” Ian whimpers.

“I got ya,” Mickey answers, and kisses the top of Ian’s head. “I got ya.”


End file.
